


the one thing the heart craves (the one thing you can't steal)

by givebackmylifecas



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Internalized Acephobia, M/M, Season/Series 03, Sex as self-harm (referenced), ace!Martin, not between main ship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:22:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26803579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/givebackmylifecas/pseuds/givebackmylifecas
Summary: “You may be okay here,” he says slowly, squeezing a spot just above Martín’s hipbones. “But you’re not enjoying it, here.” He brushes the back of his hand across Martín’s forehead. “You’re good at hiding it, but I see – and I have no interest in sleeping with someone who doesn’t really want to sleep with me.”
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote, Helsinki | Mirko Dragic & Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 21
Kudos: 117





	the one thing the heart craves (the one thing you can't steal)

**Author's Note:**

> oof this is... i don't even know
> 
> TWs: internalised acephobia, severe self-worth issues, using sex as self-punishment/harm, canon-typical violence, panic attacks
> 
> title from the mary oliver poem 'a house, or a million dollars'

The problem is that there wasn’t a problem – well, there were lots of problems, but he was handling them. What he means, is that there weren’t any problems until the monastery. Until Helsinki, to be exact. Because Martín was perfectly happy ignoring most of his problems, or using whiskey to drown the ones he can’t ignore, and had in fact found something new to help him forget Andrés. Something which has recently become a harder task than usual, given that due to circumstances beyond Martín’s control, he is now back in the cursed monastery and constantly around Andrés. But Andrés aside, he was handling things.

The opportunity for a new coping mechanism arose when Nairobi goaded Helsinki into showing off his tattoo and Martín decided to flirt with him. A decision which led to where he is now, in his room, with Helsinki on his bed, and Martín on Helsinki, and things heading in a direction that Helsinki certainly seems interested in. Martín is drunk enough to pretend to be interested and has just slipped his hand past the waistband of Helsinki’s underwear, when he’s stopped.

“What’s wrong?” he asks with a frown. “Are you not into this? You seem into this.” He presses the flat of his hand to Helsinki’s crotch, making the other man groan. “You were into it yesterday and last week.”

Helsinki pulls Martín’s hand off him, gently because that’s the only way this man seems to know how to act. “I was into it, and I am... but you aren’t.”

Martín freezes, then shakes his head. “I assure you I’m very into it,” he insists, rolling his hips demonstratively.

Once again, Helsinki stops him, with a large, warm hand on either side of his waist.

“You may be okay here,” he says slowly, squeezing a spot just above Martín’s hipbones. “But you’re not enjoying it, here.” He brushes the back of his hand across Martín’s forehead. “You’re good at hiding it, but I see – and I have no interest in sleeping with someone who doesn’t really want to sleep with me.”

Martín’s heart is in his mouth as he listens to Helsinki, who is still touching him too gently, one hand on his waist, the other now cupping his face. He pulls away, climbing off Helsinki’s lap and – embarrassingly – backs into the corner like a retreating animal. He crosses his arms defensively over his chest, suddenly very aware of the flaws in his own nudity, and tries to ignore the other man’s persistent stare. He feels sick and his hands are starting to shake, so he takes all his fear and turns it into anger that he forces outward.

“Look I made things very clear, I’m not in this for feelings. So, if you’re not going to fuck me, I’m going to have to ask you to get out,” he says, trying to add a mean edge to his voice.

Helsinki nods. “If that’s what you want.”

Martín scoffs. “Clearly, you have no idea what I want, or you’d have stopped talking and put your mouth to better use ten minutes ago.”

“I know you don’t want this. You don’t want ‘boom boom ciao’ or whatever it is you announced to the whole gang last week,” Helsinki says, getting to his feet.

“Out,” Martín retorts decisively.

Helsinki gathers his clothes and leaves, throwing Martín a final look that he can’t interpret but if he had to guess, he’d say it’s pity. When he’s gone, Martín slams the door behind him, locking it demonstratively.

He methodically dresses again, in soft pyjama bottoms and a worn t-shirt, and then crawls into bed. Only then, when he’s under the scratchy blankets that are probably the same ones he used four years ago, does he allow himself to fall apart. His hands shake uncontrollably now as he brings them up to cover his face and the breath he draws seems interminably lacking in oxygen. As much as he hates them, tries to stop them, the tears come thick and fast and before he knows it he’s unravelled into a sobbing mess.

This happens rarely nowadays. Only when he allows himself to think too much about who he is, what he wants, and what he can never have. When he spends too much time trying to figure out just what went wrong to make him the way he is. Clearly, that’s what Helsinki must have seen: his otherness, his abnormality, his inability to want and have what every other person on the damned planet seems to crave, but just leaves him cold. 

He used to think if he just tried harder, overcame his initial disgust and revulsion then it would be fine, he’d somehow fix himself. But he still finds himself flinching away from unfamiliar touches when he’s not prepared for them, still has to get drunk to have sex with most men he takes home, still never told anyone outright about the ways in which he’s broken.

It would be easier, if he could just accept that he was meant to live life alone – it’s what he deserves certainly, for the things he’s done and the way he’s treated other people. And yet… and yet he doesn’t want to be alone. In his most vulnerable moments, he can admit that’s probably why he fell so hard for Andrés. The other man is unattainable in every possible way and so, in a sense, Martín’s unrequited affections are safe with him. He’ll never look at Martín and want him in a way Martín can’t return, he never made any indication that he wanted anything more than friendship – which, Martín figured, was the best he was going to get anyway.

At least that’s what he thought right up until Andrés kissed him and told Martín he loved him, only to walk right out of his life.

He thinks he might hate Helsinki a little. If it weren’t for him and his stupidly tender hands and perceptive eyes, Martín would be distracted right now, could be content if not happy. Instead, his head hurts like someone has scraped out his brain and stuffed his skull with cotton, the way it always does when he’s been crying and drinking. His face feels puffy and he knows he must look awful, but he still finds himself climbing out of bed, slipping from his room and into the dark corridor.

He’s driven by only one thing, the desperate need to ask Helsinki how he knew. Because Martín learned a long, long time ago how to mimic the touches that drive men crazy, the sounds that mean people believe he’s enjoying himself, the words that hide just how indifferent he is to anyone’s sexual exploits – including his own. Certainly, after the scene he staged in the courtyard, the one that had the women fleeing in disgust and the men agreeing in the sort of boys-will-be-boys camaraderie Martín has been mimicking all his life, there was no reason for anyone to even suspect the existence of his deficiency.

When he gets to Helsinki’s door, he knocks, his knuckles against the wooden door seemingly the only sound in the silent monastery. After a few moments, he hears shuffling and Helsinki opens the door, blinking sleep from his eyes.

“Palermo?” he whispers, looking over his shoulder into the room, where Martín can see Nairobi sleeping. “What are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you!” Martín insists, a little too loudly because Helsinki hushes him and steps out into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

He’s dressed the same as when Martín threw him out, in a vest and underpants. The sight causes a pang of guilt in his chest, but he ignores it.

Helsinki yawns and leans against the stone wall, seemingly unaffected by the cold that is making Martín shiver like a little girl.

“What did you want to talk about?” he asks, casually as if Martín hadn’t just dragged him out of bed only hours after sending him away.

Martín curls his traitorously tremoring hands into fists and grits his teeth. “I need to know how you knew.”

Helsinki frowns. “Knew what?”

“About me,” Martín hisses into the space between them. “How did you know? You said you knew I wasn’t enjoying it.”

“Why does it matter?” Helsinki asks. “You didn’t want to sleep with me, that’s not a sin, Palermo.”

Martín scowls, clearly just because Helsinki knows doesn’t mean he understands. “It matters, because no one has been able to tell. I’ve slept with dozens of men and none of them have known. But you did. For next time, I need to know how you knew so it doesn’t happen again!”

There’s a dumbfounded expression on Helsinki’s face as he stares at Martín. “Dozens? Palermo, what are you talking about?”

“Oh,” Martín says, the realisation of what he just said, of what he has just admitted, washing over him in cold waves of nausea. “You… you thought I just didn’t want to have sex with you?”

Helsinki nods. Martín waits for him to explain, to say that he thought Martín is just an asshole, or ask why he really doesn’t want to have sex with him. Once again, Helsinki surprises him.

“Why do you do it then?” he asks. When Martín shakes his head, feigning confusion, Helsinki continues. “You said you slept with dozens of men, who haven’t known you don’t want to be with them… but why do you do it, if you don’t want to?”

Martín tries to come up with an explanation that doesn’t make him sound embarrassingly pathetic, but when he opens his mouth, to his horror, all that comes out is a sob.

“Palermo, it’s okay,” Helsinki says and Martín nods, but for the second time that night, he finds he just can’t stop crying.

He shakes his head, even as Helsinki pulls him into a hug. “It’s not okay,” he chokes out against the other man’s broad shoulder. “I know I’m defective, but I – I just can’t seem to figure out how to fix myself. And I’ve tried, I’ve tried so hard but I just don’t feel what I’m supposed to feel.”

“What are you supposed to feel?” Helsinki asks, the question rumbling in his chest and Martín can feel it in his own body.

“I don’t know, but I know that I don’t feel it,” he admits tearfully. “I know that everyone always seems focussed on people’s appearances and how to get in each other’s pants, but I look at handsome strangers and feel no more appreciation than if I’m looking at a nice suit. I force myself to think about touching them and them touching me and it makes me sick and scared. I see people lusting after each other and no matter how I try, I don’t understand how or why! I don’t know what it is, but it’s not normal, it’s not.”

The admission comes pouring out of him like a river whose banks have broken. Try as he might, he can’t hold it back. As much as he’s going to hate himself for this weakness in the light of day, here in the darkness with Helsinki’s arms around him, he feels nothing but relief at finally, finally getting to put his most shameful feelings into words.

“I can’t tell you what’s normal, Palermo,” Helsinki says softly. “But what you’re describing… it doesn’t sound like it means you want to be having sex with people you don’t know. I don’t know what it means, but it’s not wrong, it’s not a defect.”

Martín extricates himself from Helsinki’s embrace as he speaks, the comfort too much.  
“What would you know?” he demands. “What do you know about it, if you don’t understand it either? I am broken, Helsinki, I’ve known it since I was fifteen. Now just tell me how you knew, so I can go back to fucking strangers who aren’t going to psychoanalyse me!”

A flash of hurt crosses Helsinki’s face before he nods, setting his jaw. “Fine. I’ll tell you, if you answer my question from before. Why do you have sex, if you don’t enjoy it?”

Martín’s face twists into an ugly scowl, but he’s already spilled so many of his dirty secrets onto the hard stone floor tonight, one more surely won’t matter.

“Because it’s the closest I’ll come to having somebody love me, somebody want me, need me,” he spits, the truth of the words leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

There are so many emotions warring on Helsinki’s face now, and Martín hates every one of them.

Finally, Helsinki speaks. “That’s not love, Palermo,” he says. “That’s you punishing and hurting yourself in return for a sliver of intimacy.”

“That’s your opinion,” Martín says stiffly. “But it’s the best I can hope for.”

“No, you can hope for love, for romance,” Helsinki insists so naïve and earnest that Martín almost laughs.

As it is, he scoffs derisively. “Having sex with people is the bare minimum you’re asked of in a relationship – what good am I, if I can’t even provide that? No one gives you love and romance without it.”

Helsinki looks like he wants to argue, then he just shakes his head with a sigh. “Your eyes.”

“What?” Martín asks.

“That’s how I knew,” Helsinki says. “Your eyes, they looked like you were in pain and empty at the same.”

Martín doesn’t know what to say, so he just turns and leaves, walking away from Helsinki and his damn sympathy.

-

He’s late to breakfast the next morning. He washed his face with cold water, but he’s sure it still looks puffy and his eyes are bloodshot. He hopes the others just put it down to a hangover and yet another late night.

When he gets to the courtyard, everyone else is already gathered around the table, eating breakfast in the weak spring sunlight. He hesitates, trying to decide whether he wants to put himself through sitting next to Helsinki or Andrés, then decides that after his embarrassing fragility of the night before, Andrés is probably the lesser of two evils.

He squeezes in between Andrés and Tokyo, the latter throwing him a lascivious wink as she looks between him and Helsinki. Andrés says nothing, just nudges the coffee pot towards him.

Martín mumbles a thank you and pours himself a coffee, skimping on the milk for once, in favour of ingesting caffeine as quickly as he can.

“Late night?” Tokyo asks, her smile far too salacious for the time of day.

Martín pointedly ignores her, reaching for more coffee.

“Second cup already?” she continues. “Helsi, you must’ve been busy last night, if Palermo is this tired.”

Helsinki at the other end of the table just sighs, but Nairobi jumps to his defence.

“Shut up, Tokyo, he was in our room all night. If Palermo’s tired, it’s probably just from him being an asshole,” she says, making Denver laugh.

Tokyo’s grin sharpens. “So what happened, Palermo? Couldn’t get it up? Not quite the Don Juan you think you are after all?”

Martín barely hears Helsinki’s protest, deafened by the pounding in his ears. Before he can think, he’s on his feet, one hand clenched around Tokyo’s jaw, the other grabbing a knife off the table. Tokyo goes completely still, her dark eyes flashing with hatred as she stares up at him. Around them, everyone else is shouting, yelling things and he shrugs off the hands that grasp at him.

“Palermo, let her go!” Sergio is saying, eyes wide behind his thick glasses.

“Not until she apologises,” Martín says flatly.

Tokyo bares her teeth, shaking her head as best she can with his fingers still pressing bruises into her skin.

Denver grabs at his arm. “Palermo, it was a fucking joke, get off her.”

Martín pulls away from him, flipping the knife so he can point it at Denver. “Back off, this is none of your business. She insulted me, now she needs to apologise.”

“Are you serious?” Denver shouts as he steps closer again, but then Andrés is there, putting himself between Denver and Martín’s knife.

“Denver, I would suggest you move back now,” Andrés says.

He sounds as calm as if he’s discussing wine options, but Martín can see the tension he holds in his shoulders and a part of him wonders just who Andrés is concerned for here. Denver scowls, but does as he’s told, raising his hands and take a few steps away from them. Everyone else seems frozen, eyes on Andrés who has turned back to Martín.

“Give me the knife,” he says and Martín clenches his jaw.

“No,” he snarls. “I want her to apologise.”

Andrés smiles warmly and it’s so sudden that it catches Martín off guard. “Oh I know, and she will. But you need to give me the knife so the rest of these weak-hearted imbeciles don’t get even more upset at the thought of you accidentally murdering Tokyo.”

Martín looks between Andrés and the gang gathered behind him and nods, handing the knife off to Andrés.

“Very good,” Andrés says, still smiling.

Having all his attention on him, is making Martín uncomfortable. It’s been years since they’ve been this close, since Andrés has looked at him like that, since he has followed Andrés’ lead and trusted that he’ll watch out for him.

“Now,” Andrés says and his voice is almost a purr as he looks down at Tokyo. “Tokyo, do you have anything to say to Palermo?”

“Fuck you, Berlin,” she spits. “Get your psycho friend to let go of me.”

Martín does, only to grab her again, harder this time, and slam her head down onto the wooden table.

“I don’t do what he says,” Martín growls, lowering his face so it’s only inches from hers. “Apologise now or I’ll remember the fork that’s next to me and your pretty face won’t be so pretty anymore.”

Tokyo’s face twists and she grinds her teeth, but finally spits out an “I’m sorry.”

The minute she does, Andrés has an arm around Martín’s middle and is dragging him away. Tokyo is on her feet, the instant he lets go and lunging for him. Helsinki and Nairobi stop her, but Andrés doesn’t stop moving, just keeps dragging Martín away, out of the courtyard and into the monastery.

Eventually, Martín snaps out of his fog of anger and fear enough to stop letting Andrés manhandle him. They’ve almost made it to the other side of the monastery by now, Andrés having directed them into the gardens where they used to sit in the sun and plan world domination together.

“Let go of me,” Martín insists, trying to push Andrés’ hands off him.

Andrés smirks and does as Martín asks, although he sobers quickly.

“Martín,” he says, voice soft, and Martín has missed how his name sounds falling from Andrés’ lips.

“What?” he retorts, trying to keep his voice acidic.

Andrés sighs and one of his hands makes an abortive movement as if he wants to reach out. “What’s going on with you?”

“What do you mean?”

Andrés laughs humourlessly. “Are you serious? You nearly stabbed Tokyo. Not that I would have complained, but I’ve seen you shrug off insults that are ten times worse.”

Martín shrugs, looking down at his feet. “She’s just been getting on my nerves, this was the last straw.”

“You always were a terrible liar.”

Andrés’ voice is suddenly much closer and when Martín looks up, there’s less than a foot of space between them.

“Well,” Andrés adds. “At least to me.”

“What are you talking about?” he asks dismissively as Andrés inches even closer.

“Stop it,” Andrés says sharply enough to make him flinch. “Stop deflecting, stop lying, stop… whatever it is you’ve been doing since you got here. You’re not yourself anymore.”

Martín puts a hand out and pushes at Andrés’ chest to get him to move away. “You’re wrong, Andrés. I’ve never been more me, than I am now. Maybe you just never really knew me. Or maybe things have just changed.”

Andrés looks down at Martín’s hand which is no longer flat against his chest, his fingers having curled slightly into the fabric of Andrés shirt. He makes to pull it away, but then Andrés covers the hand with his own.

“Do you really believe that? Because from where I’m standing, things don’t seem that different.”

Martín laughs. It’s a harsh thing with a bitter edge, flecked with hysteria as Andrés puts his other hand on the small of Martín’s back. “You can’t really believe that. It’s been four years Andrés. You left, that changed everything.”

Andrés nods. “I did. But really, what has it changed? We’re still doing our bank heist, together just like we always wanted, aren’t we? We still have each other’s back, do we not? We still care for each other, don’t we?”

“We’re only doing the heist, only working together, because one of your brother’s children fucked up. If you didn’t need me for that, you’d still be in some tropical paradise, because despite what you say – you don’t care for me,” Martín insists, trying to free himself from Andrés’ grasp.

“You don’t get to tell me what I feel, Martín,” Andrés says, the edge returning to his voice and making him sound more like the Andrés that Martín knows. “I can’t make you believe it, but know I’m telling you the truth when I say that I care for you, as I always have. When I say that I love you, just as much as I did when I left. When I say that I want you, the way I wanted you years ago. Don’t presume to tell me I don’t know what I want.”

Martín is so close to giving in, to doing exactly what he swore he would never do again, and letting Andrés back into his heart and his life. But then Andrés says ‘I want you’ and Martín felt his stomach twist. Because maybe Andrés has finally overcome the mitochondria that dictates his desire, has instructed it to consider male bodies too instead of just female ones. But all that means, is that Martín is once again no closer to getting what he truly wants, unless he lies to Andrés and himself.

“I know what you think you want,” Martín says. “But just because you want me, doesn’t mean you want all of me.”

Andrés frowns. “What are you talking about? I love you, I want you, I need you – what more do I need to say to make you understand? I left because I had to, not because I didn’t want to be with you. I made a mistake, one that I will never make again.”

Martín remains silent and just shakes his head.

“Unless,” Andrés says slowly. “You can’t forgive me for what I’ve done? Unless, you no longer feel the same?”

If you asked anyone who has met Martín, what his weakness is, they’re sure to come up with a myriad of answers. His quick temper, his drinking, his impatience. The one person, who truly recognised his real weakness, was Sergio, because he knew that Martín could never stand to see Andrés unhappy, especially not if he’s the cause. And it’s because of the unhappy twist of Andrés’ mouth, the pain in his eyes at the thought of Martín no longer loving him, that Martín can’t simply walk away.

“Of course, I still feel the same,” he admits, his voice hoarse as if the words had rough edges that hurt on the way out. “How can you even ask that?” Andrés’ face brightens at the confession, but Martín can’t stop there, because the fact still remains that they want different things. “But I can’t give you what you want and I can’t have you, only to lose you when you realise that.”

“You’re wrong,” Andrés tells him. “I love you. If you love me, then surely that’s all that matters.”

“You’re an incurable romantic. But you’ve been married five times,” Martín says. “You know it takes more than love to make a relationship work.”

“We made a friendship work for ten years, Martín. All we’re doing is adding extra steps.”

“It’s the extra steps that I’m worried about,” Martín says sadly.

The confusion is plain on Andrés’ face and Martín feels sorry for him, but he can’t allow this to go any further. Because he could do it. He could give in and let Andrés kiss him. He could let Andrés put his hands all over him, let him undress him, let him take him to bed, the way he’s let other men, the way he’s let Helsinki. But in the end, no matter how much he likes them as people, no matter that he was the one who allowed them to use him, he can’t help but resent them for it. He can’t help but feel revulsion when they touch him after that, can’t seem to scrub the feeling of their hands on him from his skin. He knows he won’t survive feeling that way about Andrés.

“I don’t understand, Martín,” Andrés says, and it’s strange that his incomprehension is what makes him seem vulnerable. “What do you want?”

You, is what Martín almost says. It’s all he’s really wanted for nearly fifteen years now. For Andrés to be his, for Andrés to love him only, for Andrés to hug him and sleep next to him and kiss him without expectation of more, without that urge to make things sexual that every other man on the planet seems to have.

“I love you,” is what he says instead, his voice strangled by fear. “I need you to know that.”

The corner of Andrés’ mouth twitches as if he wants to smile. “I know that. I love you too, I haven’t said it very often yet, but I do.”

“Please Andrés, just listen,” Martín says, and his hand is shaking as he pulls it out from Andrés’. “I love you,” he says again. “I love you more than I’ll ever love anyone else. But I can’t give you what you want and need, what you deserve. Because you want me in a way that I can never want you. And you deserve someone who can give you a whole relationship, not just bits and pieces.”

“Martín, you’re not making sense,” Andrés says. “What is it you think I want, that you can’t give?”

Martín doesn’t know how to do this. Last night with Helsinki was an accident, but he’s never had to deliberately explain to someone just what’s wrong with him.

“You… you want… me?” he asks with a helpless little gesture at himself. Andrés frowns but nods. “You want sex.”

Andrés raises his eyebrows. “I did suppose that would happen eventually. But if you want to take thing slowly, I understand.”

“No you don’t!” Martín snaps, frustrated. “You don’t. You want sex and you want to wait, but only for a finite amount of time. Me? I’m… broken. And I don’t want it. Not now, not in a few weeks, or a few months – not ever.”

“But you have – with other men? With Helsinki?” Andrés asks, his sentences fragmenting with his incomprehension.

Martín nods miserably. “But I didn’t want to.” When Andrés’ expression twists dangerously, he hurries to explain. “They didn’t force me, I just – I did it because I thought it would fix me. Or because I wanted to be held, because I wanted someone to want me, and it's the only way I could have that. But I can’t do that… not with you, not to you.”

He trails off and Andrés doesn’t speak. They stare at each other. Andrés’ eyes are dark with incredulity, and Martín knows his own are wet with unshed tears. The silence stretches between them, creating a distance that steadily becomes more and more insurmountable. Eventually, Martín takes Andrés' lack of reaction as a dismissal. He starts to walk away and it's that, which finally spurs Andrés into movement.

He grabs Martín’s wrist, fingers easily encircling it as he tugs until Martín stops moving away from him.

“Martín,” he says, voice as gentle as Martín has ever heard it, yet insistent enough to still be familiar. “How long have you felt this way?”

“About myself or about you?” Martín asks and Andrés makes an ‘either or’ sort of gesture. “Since I met you. It’s embarrassing, but I think I loved you from the first time we met.”

“Not embarrassing, maybe a little foolish,” Andrés says with a hint of a smile. “And about yourself?” he prompts when Martín nods, but doesn’t speak.

“How long have I felt like this about other people? Always, I think. How long have I known it’s abnormal, that I’m damaged? Since I realised that books and films aren’t exaggerating, that most people actually do feel an attraction to one another.”

Andrés sighs and puts a hand on Martín’s face, one thumb stroking gently over his cheek. “So the whole time we’ve known each other, you’ve felt like this? Like you want… but can’t have? Like everyone else wants and you can’t give?”

Martín can’t speak, floored by the casual tenderness of Andrés’ touch, so he just nods.

“And what makes you think those things apply to me, the same way they do to everyone else?” Andrés asks and Martín’s whole body freezes up. “You think I won’t love you just because you don’t like sex? You think what’s in your head isn’t infinitely more interesting to me, than what I think your body can do for me?”

“But…” Martín starts. “You… you have needs. And I can’t –“

“Needs?” Andrés interrupts with a smirk. “I’m sure I do, but I don’t need you to fulfil them when you don’t want to.”

Martín shakes his head. “But I don’t understand! What are you getting out of it then?”

Andrés’ smirk relaxes into something more sincere. “The same thing as you. Companionship, love, a different kind of intimacy than what you believe is expected of you.”

“And that’s… it’s enough for you?” Martín murmurs.

“If it’s you? Yes.” Andrés says.

Martín inhales sharply and sinks into the embrace that Andrés pulls him into. Andrés hands are warm on his back and he holds him tightly enough that Martín knows it can’t be a dream.

“The world has treated you unfairly and you’ve treated yourself worse,” Andrés says into his hair. “Don’t think I’ll be the same because no one else has made the effort to know you.”

Martín clutches harder at him, noses into the space between his neck and shoulder.

“I love you,” he says quietly, but with how close they are, Andrés will have no trouble hearing. “I’m still pissed that you left, believe me, I haven’t forgotten that. But I really fucking love you too.”

Andrés laughs. “I didn’t expect you to forget, don’t worry. I wouldn’t love you as much, if you did.” He pulls away and presses his thumb to one of the bags under Martín’s eye. “You look tired. Do you want to go back to bed?”

Martín tenses just enough for Andrés to notice and he kisses his forehead.

“To sleep, mi amor, didn’t you listen to what I just said?”

“Force of habit,” Martín says with a shrug and Andrés’ expression darkens. “But a nap would be good. I haven’t slept properly in years.”

Andrés sighs. “Will I get any sympathy, if I tell you I’ve been the same?”

“That depends on whether you’re going to let me sleep with your cashmere blanket,” Martín teases.

Andrés grabs his hand and they start to walk back into the monastery. “Trading sympathy for cashmere already, I see how it is.”

Martín laughs and Andrés squeezes his hand.

-

Later, when he’s woken up from his nap, with his hair a mess and his head on Andrés’ chest, Martín tugs the blankets over his head and swears.

“What’s wrong?” Andrés asks, amused, voice muffled by the fabric.

He pulls the blankets off Martín’s head and buries his fingers in his hair.

Martín sighs. “Sergio is going to be pissy about the Tokyo thing, isn’t he?”

“Let him be,” Andrés says nonchalantly. “She annoyed me so much in the mint that I sent her out to the police. He can’t complain any more than he did then.”

Martín laughs and wraps his arm more securely around Andrés’ waist. “You never told me that.”

“Well, we haven’t talked a lot for the last few weeks,” Andrés points out.”

Martín grimaces. “That’s true.”

“We have plenty of time now,” Andrés says and kisses the top of his head.

Martín nods against his chest and yawns. “So start talking. Tell me everything I missed.”

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

“Alright, then. Everything.”

**Author's Note:**

> sorry, this was just horrendously self-indulgent and self-pitying. 
> 
> if you made it through and you didn't want to use brain-bleach please consider leaving kudos or a comment - as always you can also scream at me on tumblr ([@hefellfordean](https://hefellfordean.tumblr.com)) or twitter ([@angstypalermo](https://twitter.com/angstypalermo)) if you like


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